Chapter Thirteen
I
Kafari stared at the letter, rereading the astonishing instructions for the third time, unable to believe the evidence of her eyes. Simon, who was technically a resident alien under the provisions of the treaty, wasn’t even mentioned in the letter, which had been addressed to her. She had just about decided the thing wasn’t a practical joke when Yalena crawled under her feet, trying to yank the power cords out of the back of her computer. Kafari snagged the struggling toddler and said, “Time out. You are not allowed to play with power cords. Two minutes in the time-out chair.”
Her daughter, two years and three months old, glowered up at her. “No!”
“Yes. Touching the power cords is not allowed. Two minutes.”
Nothing in the universe could sulk quite so well as a two-year-old.
With Yalena temporarily out from underfoot, Kafari called Simon, who was in Sonny’s maintenance depot. “Simon, could you come into the house, please? We need to talk.”
“Uh-oh. That doesn’t sound good.”
“It isn’t.”
“Be right there.”
Simon opened the back door just as Kafari allowed Yalena to climb down from the time-out chair. “Daddy!” she squealed, running straight for him.
He swung her up and planted a kiss on her forehead. “How’s my girl?”
“Daddy take Bolo?” she asked, hope shining in her eyes.
“Later, honey. I’ll take you to see Sonny in a little while.”
A thirteen-thousand-ton Bolo wasn’t Kafari’s notion of an ideal playmate for a two-year-old, but Yalena was enchanted by the machine, which looked to her like an entire city that would talk to her any time Daddy allowed her to visit. Which, granted, wasn’t often, for any number of practical reasons.
“What’s up?” Simon asked, keeping his voice carefully devoid of negative emotion.
“This.” She handed over a printout of the letter.
Jaw muscles flexed when he reached the contents of paragraph two: Pursuant to section 29713 of the Childhood Protection Act, stipulating childcare arrangements for dependent children with both parents drawing paychecks, you are hereby notified of the requirement to remand your daughter, Yalena Khrustinova, for federally mandated daycare, to begin no more than three business days after receipt of this notification. You will enroll your daughter in the federal daycare center established on Nineveh Base before April 30th or face criminal prosecution for violation of the Children’s Rights provisions of the Childhood Protection Act. Prosecution will immediately result in full termination of parental rights and Yalena Khrustinova will be remanded for permanent relocation to a federally mandated foster care program.
Pursuant to statute 29714 of the Childhood Protection Act, in-home child welfare inspections will commence one week from the date of Yalena Khrustinova’s enrollment, to ensure that she is being provided with the federally mandated level of financial and emotional support necessary to her welfare. We look forward to caring for your child.
Have a nice day.
Simon looked up from the letter, met Kafari’s eyes. He was still as death for a space of seven pounding heartbeats. “They’re serious.”
“Yes.”
Jaw muscles flexed again. “We have three days.”
“To what? Ask the Concordiat to reassign you to Vishnu? Or Mali? Or somewhere else? We’re trapped, Simon.”
“I’m trapped—” he began.
“No, we’re trapped. What kind of marriage would it be, if Yalena and I are in some other star system while you’re stuck here?” She swallowed hard. “Besides which, my whole family is here. We fought too hard for this world to just walk out and leave it to the likes of that.” She pointed at the now-crumpled letter in Simon’s fist. “Don’t ask me to do that, Simon. Not yet. The courts are full of lawsuits challenging POPPA’s programs. They haven’t bought the entire judiciary. We’re fighting for this world, fighting hard. We have to go along with them until enough people wake up and see where we’re heading and do something to stop it.” She had to choke out the final words. “It’s just daycare.”
He started to answer with considerable heat, then snapped his teeth together. Once he’d swallowed whatever had tried to rip its way across his tongue, he said, “It’s not ‘just daycare’ and you know it. I can’t force you onto the next starship that comes to call. God knows, I don’t want to lose you. Either of you.” He shut his eyes for long moments, fighting an internal battle that was wreaking visible havoc. Kafari wanted to comfort him, but didn’t know how. She was scared, angry, ripped up inside with fear for her daughter. If those lawsuits failed to curb POPPA’s campaign of social insanity…
Simon muttered, “You’re the legal dependents of a Brigade officer. That’s got to count for something.”
“Against a rational government? Probably. Against POPPA? With the likes of Gifre Zeloc in the presidency and Isanah Renke leading the drive to rewrite Jefferson’s entire law code? Or ‘social progressives’ like Carin Avelaine in charge of the Bureau of Education and bigoted fools like Cili Broska in charge of purging the public schools and university curricula of antipopulist bias? The people who thought up this,” she pointed at the badly crushed letter in Simon’s fist, “engineered a rigged election that nobody could contest. Your position as a Brigade officer not only won’t help us, they’ll go after you, with intent to destroy. If you try to fight them on this, we’ll lose Yalena.”
Watching the hopelessness settle across his face and shoulders was a pain that cut straight to her heart. He was holding Yalena tightly enough to make her squirm in protest. Then a thought blossomed to life in his face, one that straightened his shoulders again. “This crap applies to children with both parents working. If one of us isn’t actively employed…”
Kafari saw exactly where he was headed. Knew in a flash that it meant trouble. Simon was “actively employed” under the treaty, despite the fact that his main job, these days, was conferring with Sonny once or twice a day and spending the rest of his time with Yalena. To get around the provisions of that letter and the legislation it represented, Kafari would have to quit her job at the spaceport.
The choices facing her crucified Kafari. Jefferson needed her. Needed psychotronic engineers, and not just at the spaceport. If the changes to higher education’s curricula were an indicator, a whole new generation would grow up without the skills or knowledge necessary to produce more engineers of any sort.
Once in power, POPPA had launched a juggernaut of far-reaching changes in every conceivable portion of society. The Childhood Protection Act was just the tip of the iceberg. Environmental protection legislation was already crippling industry with clean-environment standards so stringent, heavy-industry manufacturing plants, industrial chemical production firms — including agricultural chemicals critical to producing Terran food crops in Jeffersonian soil — and even paper-production mills literally could not operate in compliance.
The financial penalties for failing to meet standards were so severe, whole industries were going bankrupt, trying to pay fines. Business leaders were filing aggressive lawsuits to challenge the lunacy, but the Senate and House of Law, urged on by the roar of the masses, just kept passing more of POPPA’s social, economic, and environmental agendas. The subsistence allowance was already higher than the average yearly wages of low-skill menial employment, just kept passing more of POPPA’s social, economic, and environmental agendas.